


In Favour with His Stars

by Lokei



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Episode: Retribution, Gen, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-07
Updated: 2006-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokei/pseuds/Lokei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bard knows us all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Favour with His Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Haven’t been able to write much of anything but Retribution-period fics recently. It’s like Archie’s moved the infirmary into my head. Not good. But hey, at least the Shakespeare’s a plus. Done with love and apologies to the Bard.

The door rang dully as it shut behind Hornblower’s departing form and it echoed in the sticky stillness of the Kingston night, so silent that Bush could have sworn that neither he nor Kennedy drew breath for a full five minutes together.

Kennedy was on his side, turned away from Bush so the latter could not see his eyes. The older lieutenant would have bid money on the likelihood that the other had his gaze fixed on the darkening casement through the bars, eyes picking out the first glimmers of starlight in the tropical sky.

It was a trait Bush had noticed about Kennedy—so often his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere else. Yet until tonight, it had never occurred to Bush to wonder what he saw.

The younger man was murmuring now, in a voice low enough to protect against the coughing spasms which now and again wracked his weakening frame. Bush winced at the sheen of perspiration on Kennedy’s neck and not for the first time wished for a cool bath and a steadier hand than Dr. Clive’s to tend them both. Even a cool breeze from the casement would help.

Whatever Kennedy murmured now, Bush could not follow, though it had rhythm and cadence as it faded in and out of audibility. Bush began to wonder if Kennedy’s mind were wandering, and was about to call for what help he could when Kennedy addressed him, blue eyes unnaturally bright in the candlelight.

“The stars are not so close here as they were from the _Renown_ ,” Kennedy assayed a smile.

Bush squinted at the window critically and then realized that was not what Kennedy meant. “No,” he said, “I suppose they’re not.”

Kennedy’s pitiful attempt at a smile faded away. “Doesn’t matter. I am out of their favour anyway, or very soon will be.” His eyes fluttered shut. “Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,” he whispered.

Bush was confused again—something which happened regularly around his companion. “Mr. Kennedy?”

One blue eye creaked open with a gleam of humor in its depths. “Shakespeare, Mr. Bush. Are you much acquainted with him?”

Bush wasn’t sure he liked the other officer’s tone, but he was not about to quibble with a dying man. He restrained himself to a mere “Clearly not as much as yourself, sir.”

Kennedy’s mouth twisted into another approximation of a smile. “We’re all in there, you know—Sawyer, pompous fools like Buckland and bloody black Charlie Hammond, myself. Shakespeare knows us all.”

Bush raised an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe a man who lived two hundred years ago could predict such a situation as that in which we now find ourselves.”

Kennedy’s smirk grew just the tiniest bit broader as he pointed towards the foot of the bed. “Perhaps you would oblige me?”

Bush levered himself slowly from the bed and padded to the chest at Kennedy’s feet. “What am I looking for?”

“Little brown book. Sonnet Twenty-Five, if you would?” There was a grim line between Archie’s brows—clearly this was of some import to the younger man, so the second lieutenant settled himself in the spot Hornblower had vacated and sought to moderate his quarterdeck bellow to the unfamiliar cadences of a more mellifluous tongue than his own.

“Let those who are in favour with their stars  
Of public honour and proud titles boast,  
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,  
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.  
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread  
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,  
And in themselves their pride lies buried,  
For at a frown they in their glory die.  
The painful warrior famoused for fight,  
After a thousand victories once foil'd,  
Is from the book of honour razed quite,  
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:  
Then happy I, that love and am beloved  
Where I may not remove nor be removed.”

Bush’s cool blue eyes met Kennedy’s burning ones inquisitively. In a mere span of fourteen lines, the other’s young face had smoothed from the hardened lines of agony into the first genuine smile Bush had seen since Kennedy and Hornblower had conspired to haul him off the edge of a cliff. Bush was relieved it had reappeared, but was still puzzled as to the cause. Kennedy’s eyes flicked down to the page and back to his face, seemingly begging that Bush look again—that he find what Kennedy did. Bush frowned and concentrated on the convoluted phrases on the pages in his lap. It was nearly as much of a penance as playing whist with Hornblower.

 _Hornblower._

The shifting mosaic that was the Bard’s words settled into a sudden moment of clarity. The painful warrior razed from the book of honour bore Sawyer’s face, as he whose pride buckles at a frown bore Buckland’s. And in the center of the poem stood the man that Kennedy had neglected to mention.

*****

Archie watched the understanding break across Bush’s honest face like dawn creeping over the horizon, the older man’s blue eyes wide with astonishment.

 _But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?_ Archie thought flippantly, his muted chuckle converting into a spasm of painful coughing. Bush hastened to pour him a cup of water, which Archie sipped gratefully as the other said hesitantly:

“You said Shakespeare knows us all. You didn’t mention Hornblower.”

“I did not.”

“But he’s there nonetheless.” Indeed, never had Bush seen a man more beloved by his stars.

Archie merely smiled, and Bush felt his stomach sink. “What do you plan?”

Archie rolled his head to one side and shot Bush a look the other ought to recognize—he had glared at Hornblower enough in the same fashion. Then his face relaxed. “Horatio was born to be a captain, Mr. Bush. I intend to make sure he has that chance.”

The import of Archie’s statement sunk in and Bush’s bluff face creased. “There must be another way.” Archie shook his head in firm denial. The accusation had been made—someone would swing for it, and they both knew it.

“I cannot dissuade you, then?”

Archie’s second shake of his head was disrupted by another cough. “I will not see the other side of Sunday as it is, Mr. Bush. I lose nothing of value to me.” ‘And will save everything that is’ was implied in the following pause. He took as deep a breath as he dared. “Call Dr. Clive if you please, Mr. Bush. Tell him I need to speak to Commodore Pellew.”

*****

Vindicated, promoted, and thoroughly depressed, Commander Horatio Hornblower stood at the turned earth which marked the otherwise anonymous grave. As Bush approached, Hornblower looked up jerkily.

“Congratulations on the _Retribution_ , sir.”

Horatio winced. “It should have been you.”

Bush shook his head. “Mr. Kennedy did not walk to that courtroom for me, sir.”

Hornblower gave him a look reminiscent of a startled rabbit. “What would make you say that, Mr. Bush?” The harshness in his voice was unintentional, but indicative of how far from his usual self-control he now strayed.

Bush was unperturbed. “Shakespeare, sir.”

Hornblower’s eyes narrowed—he had not expected what he perceived as derision from his former superior. But his eyes softened again as Bush held out a little brown book which the new commander recognized instantly.

Horatio took the book with trembling hands and inwardly cursed his inability to keep them still. Bush affected not to notice, which was worse still. And much as he might despise his volubility, Horatio could not help but confess:

“It struck me, standing here, how many things I did not say. And now I never shall.”

Bush shifted uncomfortably on his solid feet, unsure how he ended up father confessor to both these men within a twenty-four hour period.

Especially since this time, absolution was not his to give. Someone else already had.

“I believe he knew, sir.” Bush nodded at the book in Hornblower’s hand. “He said how well Shakespeare knows us all.”

Hornblower gave a funny little half-smile. “Sounds exactly like him,” he agreed, and ran a long finger around the edge of the pages before flipping the cover open.

Bush edged away, but not before he caught sight of the tell-tale moisture in the new captain’s eyes and the familiar handwriting on the coverleaf.

 _Fitting_ , Bush thought, that the fourth lieutenant should have died defending the Renown. The name of Kennedy would never again grace the Navy Lists, but it was enshrined somewhere far more precious, for all time.

 _Then happy I, that love and am beloved  
Where I may not remove nor be removed._


End file.
